Absolute Bearing
by OrisounAsh
Summary: She is brutal and beautiful in her way, like the sea ravaging stone cliffs, or a storm that churns waves in the deep waters they sail on. She refuses to yield, refuses to accept the word "impossible", and that more than anything brought him into the maelstrom she created on his ship. [Orderless "one shot" series. Single chapter a sparse "M". Recently complete.]
1. Absolute Bearing

Author's Note: See End Notes for more information.

* * *

He doesn't remember what prompted it, what propelled him from passive attraction to acting on emotion he didn't think himself capable of anymore. They had pushed and pulled one another for months, and he had put off thinking about any of it for just as long. He had been married, after all, and highly devoted, even after his wife - God he still misses her - had passed away.

 _Passed away._ It sounds so benign, like she simply gave in one day and ceased to live. It doesn't describe the pain she must have felt, the desperation, the _fear_. That thought more than any other still eats at him, still drives a wedge between him and the mission he doggedly pursues.

And then there is _her_ , a woman so devoted to her own mission that she would go days without sleep, forget to eat, and sit quietly in dark corners when she thought no one was looking, crying for the failures and successes alike.

This is the woman he finds himself drowning in.

She is brutal and beautiful in her way, like the sea ravaging stone cliffs, or a storm that churns waves in the deep waters they sail on. She refuses to yield, refuses to accept the word "impossible", and that more than anything brought him into the maelstrom she created on his ship.

He had watched those cunning eyes of hers for signs of whatever emotion she would be throwing his way, but it wasn't until recently he wanted to see them closed in pleasure as his rough hands trailed her skin. He had rarely noticed her lips, not really, except to gauge if her words were tinted in sarcasm; he had found more and more he wanted to taste words of rapture as they are gasped from those lips. Her body had seemed small to him, capable and strong but never showing any of the smooth curves that had so attracted him to his wife.

He discovered recently that her thin frame brought out a desire set somewhere deep in his bones.

Somehow this back and forth they had played for longer than he cared to admit - guilt gnaws at him for his mental infidelity to his wife - has now reached a breaking point, unable to continue the subtle game between them. He doesn't recall the exact moment it happened, but something snapped like a tow rope unable to handle the unbearable tension between two ships, and abruptly those lips and that skin and her _body_ was bare to him, just as volatile as the waters surrounding him.

Her touch scorches him, and he feels as though he understands the fever The Six underwent. The logic, the cool calm he prides himself in is gone in a delirium of flesh and half-spoken words, replaced by something far less inclined to think rationally. There isn't a perfect molding of their bodies, but rather a sort of seductive dissonance that leaves his hands unable to linger on one portion of her skin, or his lips to remain steady on her own.

Still, that guilt remains, but for now he can lose himself in this fragile, unbreakable thing, this woman who challenges his will and confronts his hard stubbornness.

She is _drowning_ him, but he is willingly drinking her in.

* * *

Author's End Note: I don't normally ship these two (I ship Rachel with success and Chandler with happiness), but this idea came to me after a very long conversation about the two of them with a fellow writer. So while I would usually think them simply friends with a great deal of mutual respect, my friend made excellent points, so I might have more of these on the way. Well played, glassticket. Well played.


	2. Range Clock

Author's Note: See End notes for more information.

* * *

She'd always imagined sailors to be smaller, wiry and ribald men, built to live on ships where space was at a premium and concepts such as "suites" stopped at a bunk bed and lone locker. These notions were never challenged, as she had always worked with the respective Air Forces of whatever government she could latch on to for her research, and those men were a different breed entirely.

But then she watched _that man_ walk into her appropriated helo bay, and all her preconceptions about sailors and their supposed _type_ were a thing of the past.

He first struck her as simply broad, but the more she studied him - and to her credit, she thinks he has yet to notice - the more she realized he wasn't _just_ a large man; he is a tall and well built individual, but it is his _manner_ that sets him apart.

True, his frame is expansive, and carries no small amount of useful, well-earned muscle, but it isn't just that he _physically_ takes up more room than most other men on the ship. In fact, she is certain that there are taller, and larger men currently residing on the _Nathan James_ , but none of them can order attention or take up space the way he can. Again, it is his _manner_ , that occasionally infuriating way about him that generates an air of command that is hard - ever so hard - to ignore.

When he walks, he portrays a predator, easy in his home environment but readily deadly given the chance. When he sits, his presence is not diminished, simply subdued. And when he brings to bear that anger, that righteous indignation, he fills his space with an infectious, chilling rage that seems to pull strength straight from the steel and steam and sailors below his feet.

And yet.

He is kind. He is a man whose smile is contagious and whose laugh - rare as it is - never ceases to lighten her heart, if only for a moment. This man who has lost so much and fought so tirelessly, he cares so very much for his crew, for his _family_ \- blood and not - and that above all things makes him formidable.

She sees the love in him, and the pain, and knows this great man is all the more _great_ because of it.

So sure, she had always thought of sailors as quick men, small men, men who fit compact in the cramped spaces designated for them. She thought them most likely coarse and bawdy, and unlikely to have more than a little in common with herself.

Then _this man_ stepped in from a sunlit deck and into her shambles lab, and she knew she had been sorely mistaken.

He is the ship beneath him, the men behind him, and the power of his title.

He is no small man.

And she thinks she could love him.

* * *

Author's End note: So I did actually decide to do more with this. Thank you all for your support already - starfoxtwin, StarTraveler, and IfUKnewUCouldNotFail - and as always, I look for prompts to help me along.


	3. Wake

Author's Note: From a prompt given by MuchMeaning, "Tom realizes his feelings after Rachel is taken hostage". See the End Notes for more.

* * *

There is something cold and twisted in his gut, upending his center and growing ever sharper. It bathes him in ice, sets a tremble into his hands that he can't will away, and cuts short his breath with every short breath of air he sucks down. This cold thing is working its way into his brain, digging deep to that part of him he keeps locked away.

It isn't good for a captain to be so unsure, so incapable of fighting down the spiked cold as it grows roots in his stomach. He needs to be strong and firm, to stand tall and ready as the situation demands, but his mind and body are rebelling against that idea.

He is in her lab, shaking fingers tracing small artifacts of her time here: empty vials, a worn microscope, neat rows of syringes. And suddenly comes the realization that these _things_ , these items tiny and large, mean nothing without her using them. They are simply things, inanimate objects existing for the prospect of future use, and even then, they come alive only from skilled touch.

Her hands gave these things _life_ , and without her, they are only _things_.

That jagged cold in his middle twists again, and he grinds his teeth in retaliation. Soon, there will be contact from his people on the ground. Soon there will be word as to whether or not she skated through another bloody, tangled situation, unharmed but wary.

Soon there will be word if these things around him would still have use.

Abruptly, his assaulted mind latches on to a singular thought: she gave him a use past captain and soldier, brought him literal salvation through her tears and her fears and her _triumphs_ , and never once did he recognize the way his heart had responded to such heady acts.

And there it was, the thought that cracks the hold of the cold thing around his chest, the bands that prevented him from breathing. He gasps in great lungfuls of chill air, his tremoring hands scrubbing away at the hard layer of fear on his face. There is still terror, still an abundance of anxiety and worry and _panic_ , but now he knows _why_.

It isn't just because she is the phenomenal Dr. Scott, or because she has brought them _all_ new life, or because of the thousand and one other things she has given to this overwhelming, never-ending quest they are all set on. It isn't because she is one of _them_ , a member of their floating family, and it isn't because she spurs them all on to greater things.

It is because she is _Rachel_.

And he loves her.

This simple understanding brings a sudden peace with it, a warmth that combats the cold inside him. There remains the worry and panic, but he understands _why_ now, understands the reason behind the emotions, and that is enough to rip up the roots of cold that had burrowed tight into his mind. He can think again, he can _reason_ , and with that reason comes a flood of potential plans. He has _faith_ in her, in the strength and tenacity of her mind, and in her conviction; his worry is now getting her back, not if she is still alive.

Her hands give so much _life_ , to her machines and computers, to family and strangers.

He needs her to know what those hands have done to his _heart_.

* * *

Author's End Note: My take on prompts like this tend to be a little less than the usual story, and more a vignette on one character or another. I have challenged myself to write a little dialogue as possible, much like I did in my previous Arrow collection. I also based this on a progression to their relationship, because I don't see them so close as of yet within the show. And though I have updated quite a bit over the past day and a half, please don't assume this will be a constant; I just happened to have time free for the first time in a while, but I will attempt to have a chapter up at least every other day.


	4. Founder

Author's Note: From StarTraveler, "...what if Tom was selected for the trials instead of Jeter and when things go south I'd love Rachel's thoughts about how she feels about him her despair that he'll likely die". See End Notes for more information.

* * *

This wasn't supposed to happen.

They weren't _supposed_ to be so feverish. They weren't _supposed_ to show the middle stage signs of the virus. They were _supposed_ to be better.

But like all things in the world, what is _supposed_ to happen, and what _will_ happen are two highly different things.

She watches them languish, and all she can think is that her greatest achievement thus far would end in total failure, costing the lives of six more souls, six more brave and honest and _good_ people.

Her failure is going to kill _him_.

She had protested his involvement - hell, they _all_ had - but in the end he had fallen back to that stubborn, self-sacrificing nature of his and bulled his way into the trial. She'd nearly _begged_ him to rethink his choice, to remember that he was the _captain_ , that he had more responsibilities to his crew than to humanity at large, and he was needed more than any other man or woman on the ship.

That went about as well as one would expect.

So now she watches behind a panel of plastic, surrounded by a pressurized suit, as his stern, kind face is coated with sweat, and his lips move with words she cannot comprehend; he is in delirium and it breaks a part of her she didn't know existed. This man...he is strength personified, he is unwavering and passionate, a fixed point they all revolve around, yet here he is, suffering for her hubris, suffering for her crazed need to be right about something that could save millions.

He is _suffering_ because she was _wrong_.

They are all of them - The Six as he calls them - in pain, but his torment twists something deep within her, something she was sure couldn't exist, not because she is a cold woman but because she simply didn't have time or room in her life for such an emotion. Every time his lips move to speak words she doesn't want to understand, every time his fingers ghost over her arm when she changes his meds, every time his eyes close and for a second they are all certain he has finally succumbed; these sharp, bladed moments rip into her, bringing on an agony she is fighting, but losing to.

If he dies, he will take with him the part of her that drives her doggedly to the cure.

If he dies, it will kill her.

She realizes that too late, realizes her mistake in quantifying her emotion as simply respect. She has put a man - a great man, an extraordinary man, a _beautiful_ man - in a sealed room with a virus designed for one thing, and it is certainly doing its job. She is killing him for her pride, and she feels the weight of it in her shredded chest, not just because he is the _captain_ , but because he is the one her heart is _bleeding raw_ for.

She doesn't know if it is love, but it pounds a white hot nail ever deeper in her chest, in her mind, in her _soul_ with every ragged breath he takes.

He is dying for the highest cause.

She is dying from his sacrifice.

And she knows it is all her fault.

* * *

Author's End Note: I wanted to say thank you again to IfUKnewUCouldNotFail and StarTraveler, as well as thank you to newer reviewers lizb1813, vampoof94, and AtoZee.


	5. Anchor Rode

Author's Note: Something I thought of at work. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

His left hand feels heavy.

His fingers feel distracted.

Days, weeks have passed since her death, since he lost the woman he had pledged life and happiness and _love_ to. Time has come and gone like the foamed water lapping at the sleek steel surrounding him; it will not be ignored, but also becomes a constant, surrounding him and washing over him and reminding him that there is a missing part of him he will never recover.

When he has a moment to breathe, when the ship or the crew or simply _life_ allows him to stop for a singular second, he feels something tight in his chest, a thing that has banded his ribs and stolen his ability to draw in a full breath. This thing, this emotion is carried in his breast the way a parasite resides in the blood of a host; he has little knowledge on how to remove it, since this thing is so foreign, so unknown that it can run unchecked through his veins and thieve his peace.

Because shouldn't he feel that as well?

He should feel such relief at the sight of his children smiling and growing and _healthy_. He should feel relief that his father - hardheaded that he is - can rest easily in a home with his grandchildren, without worry of the red death following so many others.

He sees them, hears them, _holds_ them, and yet there is still a hole in his contentedness.

She was ripped from him without a goodbye, and he had been unable to save her.

Sure, others have told him that it was never something he could have stopped, and no blame should placed, as life is out of any control, and accepting that will ease the pain. But _which_ pain? The pain of _being too late_? The pain of knowing she suffered more than a human should? The pain knowing that his children will live in a world without their mother? The indescribable pain that eats away at him from somewhere deep inside, a dark place that is gaping and raw?

 _That_ pain?

He pretends, so very well, that he is dealing with all the pain, but it is a lie. He lives this lie for his children and his father and his crew. He lives it because he doesn't know any other method of coping with his failure.

And then there are moments, moments like this, where he feels the small weight of his metal promise, of the gold wrapped around his finger, and remembers all too vividly the way she felt and laughed and loved and _lived_. He thinks he should remove it, peel away the physical reminder of his loss, but he still feels tied to her, tied to their promises, and he cannot walk away from that.

He can't walk away, but that doesn't mean he must walk alone.

There is another in his life now that gives him hope, as rare and real as that is. She understands loss, understands that he cannot simply _move on_ to the next new thing because to him, the last was _perfect_. That thing in his chest, the one that pumps toxic doubt and guilt through his veins, is lessened, made to shrink back when she is near. He knows he is coming to a dangerous place with her, a place they both know to be precarious; she is in love with her work, he is in love with his wife, and they are both desperate for a more immediate connection, be it love or otherwise.

His left hand feels heavy.

She threads her fingers through his, and they walk forward.

* * *

Author's End Note: scifihippie you have brought attention to part of my argument with my friend about Chandler and Rachel's relationship. I feel strongly, however, that their greatest chance for happiness will come when they have both shed some of the past, and are able to move forward. At the moment, Chandler's loss is too raw, and Rachel is too invested in humanity for them to be "together", but I think once they move past that, they have a chance. Also, guilt-ridden Chandler is my favourite thing to write.

And as always, thank you to those who have reviewed, followed, and favourited.


	6. Overfalls

Author's Note: This is a very hesitant **"M"** chapter. Having been through quite a bit of fuss in another fandom over things like this, I was unsure if I should include this chapter in the series or let it stand alone. Let me know what you think and consider this a bit of an extension to the first chapter. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

Her skin tastes like sterile fabric and spice.

Her lips taste like searing will and hope.

She brands his skin with her touch, the fever in her fingers leaving trails of desire across his flesh, and he can't remember what sanity feels like. They are tangled and twisted, sweat-slicked bodies gliding against one another as they rush forward to oblivion.

Because that is what they've become, two creatures fighting for release in a world that no longer makes rational sense. He has lost a constant in his life, she has lost her way, and they both find mindless distraction in these acts of capricious fucking.

Isn't that what they are doing? _Fucking_? Because it isn't simply sex, simply an act they do for passing the time. And it certainly isn't _making love_ , because he is convinced their haphazard scramble to find some sort of tangible proof of life isn't _love_. It is something else all together. Something he has never experienced and he prays to God will pass soon.

He prays it will pass because he is becoming _addicted_.

She can be as inviting as the clear tropical waters, or as mercurial as the cold black seas, and he feels her touch crawl under his skin with every moment they spend wrapped in one another. He wants to come up for air, knows he should, but this desire, this _need_ for her and the escape she brings holds him fast with ropes braided from failing will and weakness.

So she drags him down into the depths of their insanity, her body welcoming and her words like a siren call.

He knows she is hurting as well, so she chases in him something other than the fear and doubt she feels at every moment. There is a presence in her scorching touch that calls to him, a presence born of that same fear and doubt, and it reminds him why he seeks her out, if only to share the briefest of contacts.

But for the moment, her slicked skin is smooth over his, and her body has opened to him with wet invitation. The guilt over his wife - he almost hopes that reminder will never fade - is riding just below the surface of his thoughts, bound tight there as he fucks the woman he is losing himself in.

His hips encourage her pace, while his hands roam over the hard curves of her stomach, and the flat plane between her breasts. A gold band glints in the failing light, a reminder to him of what he has lost, a reminder as to why he is buried so deeply in a woman made of wild conviction and sorrow.

He is addicted.

She tastes like a false promise and hope.

* * *

Author's End Note: That isn't particularly graphic "smut", so I decided to allow it in the series. I do enjoy writing the more graphic scenes, but this one called to me, and I had to write it. I feel like their relation ship could go a number of different ways, and this is simply one take on it. And thank you once again to my regular reviewers, as well as newcomer **shepweir always.** Also, **Scousedancer** , no worries.


	7. On Her Beam Ends

Author's Note: A prompt from **StarTraveler** : "They're on the Russian ship and Tom is in the cell I'd like to see his thoughts on Rachel being onboard and his fear for her trying not to imagine horrible things". This is slightly off the mark but it seemed to be where Tom wanted to go with it. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

He was caged. Steel bars, steel mesh, steel locks, steel around his arms, and unforgiving steel beneath him. Normally, so much metal surrounding him would be a comfort, an unyielding blanket that wrapped him in security and the peace of mind. But here...here the metal was rotten away, it was stained and pitted, and it spoke of evil things, things malevolent and corrupt.

And _she_ was in the middle of it.

 _Of course_ she couldn't keep to the ship. Of course she couldn't obey orders. _Of course_ she had to be the person they sent over because God dammit she was the _logical_ choice, and he had to see that.

That didn't mean he was going to _like_ it.

His surprise at seeing her had only been surpassed by the kiss _. That kiss._ It had been rough and desperate and nearly pleading; she had passed her note to him, but she had given him a taste of her strength and her fear. He saw the latter plain as day on her face when she pulled away, in that fraction of a moment when they could still breathe in one another, and her eyes flicked up from his lips.

 _Christ_ , she had been terrified but covered it with an iron will.

So now he sits, waiting with his chatty companion, discussing the better ways of escape, but his mind wouldn't let him step away from the memory of her for too long. She is somewhere on the ship, somewhere in the rusted rot of the old steel deathtrap and his gut is trying to twist itself into new shapes at this thought.

He knows they won't hurt her, not for a long enough while before they get their cure. But it is after that moment, after the half second they realize they don't need her anymore that brings out a tremor in his hands. He listens to his nattering compatriot but a portion of his mind is distracted by the _what ifs_ and _maybes_ that surround her circumstances.

Did his crew arm her?

Would she be willing to pull the trigger?

Could she live with taking a life?

Because, if he is honest with himself, she is not a _killer_. She is not a person to play God, not like that. Sure, she is playing around with a higher power by taking on the creation of this cure, but _ending life_. That takes a different person, a person like _him_.

He knows no matter how much longer they have together, he will kill for her again.

It is his job to be between people like her and the people that have them both in chains; his around his wrists, hers around her free will. And for him, these chains are no more than a momentary setback, a temporary issue that will be resolved shortly. But for her...for her those chains will shackle her down for as long as men like this exist, as long as men who are desperate and cunning and cruel remain in the world. They are highly visible here, easily recognizable, but elsewhere…

Elsewhere, they are harder to spy so easily.

So he sits with his insides turning flips and his skin tremmoring because he finally understands that her danger is _here_ and it is _out there_ and he can't stand between all of it. He can't, even though he wants to. He feels the cold rage inside him reach out to direct his hand at anyone on this ship who would harm her, and then further, to anyone who _might_ hurt her, and that is the emotion, the revelation that has him so worried.

Is he _that willing_ to kill for the cure, or for _her_?

Is he willing to end every life aboard this ship because they jeopardized the salvation for humanity, or because they hurt _her_?

His overworked heart and his mind reconcile, and call them one and the same.

He doesn't doubt her courage. He doesn't doubt her strength. He doesn't doubt her grit.

He doubts his resolve to keep her just a doctor, just a person to protect.

Shit, he's going to kill for her just because she is _Rachel_.

* * *

Author's End Note: When I say things like "This is where 'x' character decided to go with it", I don't mean I express no control whatsoever on where these stories take me. I am, after all, the writer. However, there are times where it seems the character would act or say things a different way than what I would have them act or speak, so I modify the story to account for that. Which is what happened here. I couldn't imagine Tom being too terribly worried for Rachel since he received his letter, because he 1) knows his team is coming and 2) knows she is a very capable woman. So I am left with instead a story about his thoughts on why he does the things he does for her, and even if he should continue doing them. However, I find this an interesting lead-in piece to what happens not too shortly after in the episode. Tom's perception of her will certainly change after that.


	8. Letter of Marque and Reprisal

Author's Note: A reaction to "Uneasy Lies the Head". Obvious spoilers. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

He'd pushed her to it, drove her to an edge and then shoved her over. He had bullied her into a dangerous corner, one she had no chance of fighting back from.

 _You said you were having trouble with the vaccine._

 _You said that could take months._

 ** _He killed my wife._**

He'd seen it in her eyes the moment he let those words slip, saw the guilt that mirrored this own with every breath he took. But there was something else on her face when he spat out those continual words of manipulation, emotions he hadn't been privy to before.

Sorrow.

 _Fear_.

But not the sort of fear that comes from bodily harm or mental inadequacies. That fear he'd witnessed was deep and comfortless and if he had a lifetime he would never come close to understanding it. What he _had_ understood, however, was that his words had worked, and her will was being bent for his gain. For _their_ gain.

Was it really so easy for him?

Had it been so simple a thing to control such a woman? Had it only taken a few words, said with conviction and sinuous force, to break her free from the rejections of before and settle her on a path of his choosing?

Because isn't that what happened?

Isn't he to blame for the bloody, rotting body on the deck of his once-helo bay?

She'd told him no, and she'd told him the man they'd fished from death would only bring more problems, more harm than good. But he was the commander, and he of course had _known best,_ had known what to say and do, and he'd deemed it best that she talk with the walking pathogen. To convince the other scientist to give up his secrets.

What he hadn't known is where those secrets had been hidden.

He should have known she would go after them.

She'd done it, she'd _talked and talked_ like he had asked, and then she'd gone in for _more_. He had been too distracted by too many other things to watch this horror he'd started unfold, but he was there for the final act, for the last scarlet stroke on a play they'd all been cast in.

She had killed.

 _Slaughtered_.

He can only stare at her now, he can't form the words to address the terrible, dark mistake he's made. Her eyes are ginting with triumph and there is not an ounce of shame or guilt on her face; why should there be, when she has done exactly what he wanted her to? That innate fierceness in her is being put away slowly, like a feline retracting its claws, but - just the same as a great cat - the look of satisfaction over the act is failing to fade.

She has what he asked her to find.

She killed to get the answer.

And he pushed her to it.

* * *

Author's End Note: I had the feeling after watching this episode a third time that Rachel wouldn't have gone so far (not so soon) to get the sequence if Chandler hadn't said _exactly_ what he said when he said it. That entire short, emotional dialogue evolved around one thing: getting Rachel to have answers _faster_. So in the end, she did. Maybe she could have kept from killing Sorenson if she hadn't been so pressured for time, not by herself but also by Chandler. I can't help but believe Chandler feels this way, especially as cold has he was throughout the episode to her.

There will be a follow-up on how Rachel see this situation, and I don't think she feels quite the way Chandler thinks she does.

Thank you all for your reviews and follows/favourites and a thank you also to new reviewer **double malt.**

Also, **StarTraveler** : your prompt is a good one though I think it is a little too expansive for the small one-shots I have planned for here. Thank you for the idea though.


	9. Part Brass Rags

Author's Note: Finally saw episode 10 today. This is what came out of that viewing. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

 _You are ruthless baby, and that's why we're alive today._

The man from Reno hadn't been wrong with his choice of words; she _is_ ruthless, and the bloody parts of a dead man in her lab cooler speak volumes to such a savage nature. Her instinct is anger and retribution, two things that don't mix well with your standard fare of tea chat and paleomicrobiologist gatherings.

There is a drive in her that burns away social convention and instills a fervent need to discover and _conquer_ , regardless of the consequences of that need. She has spent years vanquishing diseases, following their every hop and step and mutation, knowing their DNA closer than she could ever know the ingredients to the cold dinners that sustained her so often.

There is something feverish inside her.

It won't allow her to stop.

She has fears, she has doubts, but she has no reservations about the path she is on. She was right about the primordial strain, she was right about the reasons for its mutations, and she was right, _Christ she was right_ about the final piece to humanity's dance with this red death.

A man simply had to die for that piece to become reality.

A man had to die, a man who had killed billions. _Billions_. Most minds couldn't fathom such a number, as great as it is, but her mind, with its brilliant way with detail, could count each and every one of those billion if it needed to. So many dead, for an ego, for _bragging rights_. So many dead, and she couldn't have stopped it then.

But _now_ is different.

Now she has placed her foot on the throat of a virus that has haunted her for months, that has left ghosts to pursue them across the world.

And he has the audacity to say she will be tried for her crimes.

His words shake something free in her, remind her that these people will never understand, they will never comprehend the fanatical drive to explore and ultimately subjugate a disease so deadly it covered the world in death with little effort. She did that. _She_ understands this virus. _She_ brought it to its knees. And it is only _her_ that took the step needed to finally overthrow the disease's hold for good.

He judges her when he says it isn't his place, he says it was never about _what he wanted_. She can only think how cowardly he is, how foolish and selfish he is to think that none of what she did, what _they_ did, wasn't for him. Of course it was for him. He knew he could rein her in with a mention of his wife and children; he knew he could turn her in circles by bringing up how the world once was. He would look at her and she would think for a moment that he understood, because his beautiful face would tell her he supported her, tell her he wanted her to continue for them.

For _him_.

She sees him now as another man too wrapped up in his rules and his faith to ever consider a reality outside the one he has painted for himself. And it isn't a faith of the soul - not like her father's, not like his sickness - but rather a faith in the system and structure he has been raised in, and continues to foster on the metal leviathan they are all calling home.

He was unwilling to take that step.

So she took it for all of them.

And look at the result!

She has solved it, solved the puzzle, solved the greatest problem of any age, and she has done it on board a ship in the middle of the sea. She has done the impossible by tearing her way through expectation and rules, forging her own path through all the pain and suffering, and ended up here.

Here, where there is a dead man and a cure.

Here, where there is impotent judgement and salvation.

 _You are ruthless baby, and that's why we're alive today_.

* * *

Author's End Note: I have an entire meta for this episode, and how it plays out with the rest of the season. I don't think this is immediately an end for them, but I do think a few things need to happen with them both (Chandler in particular) before they can move on. I would love to talk more about this, but that would take up far too much space to be considered simply "end notes". If you would like to discuss more on it, you can reach me here via PM or on tumblr as _disasterintow_.


	10. Act of Pardon

Author's Note: Spoilers for season two episode 12. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

There are moments in life that are weighted, heavy, and they beg to be addressed. The death in the water was hunting them down, and the insanity on land was closing in on them, but all she felt in that weighted, heavy moment was that she should take a small step. Just one. A step that she had been unwilling to take for days - weeks longer, if she was honest with herself - all because of her intractable and willful nature.

To be fair, he was just as bad.

They'd spoken, however briefly, on the subject only hours before. She could recall in full detail the sorrow and guilt in his voice, the way his eyes closed in remembrance of those they had lost, and of those left behind. Physically, she had patched him up as well as he would let her, but the pain on his face didn't come from anything she could have repaired.

And oh God, did she wish she could have.

Then he spoke two words that twisted up her insides, and caused her breath to hitch. He had thanked her, _thanked her_ , and when her sight met his sharp, clear eyes she knew he'd given ground. He had been clawing away at the wall between them, a wall they were both guilty of erecting, and he'd been offering her a chance to meet him part way.

All she could manage was to walk away.

There had been words choking in her throat, words that she wanted to say, _should_ have said, but that willful pride of hers hadn't released her voice.

 _You're a good man._

 _I'm glad it was your ship._

 _I'm sorry._

Not an apology for the act she committed, the death she had brought about. It was an acknowledgement of the damage she'd caused to them, to whatever tenuous, deep-seated connection that drove them both to new heights of worry and annoyance. It was that connection that eventually dragged her closer to him, like the seductive undertow of a perfect beach. And just like an undertow, she hadn't realized how far out she'd been before return was impossible.

She wasn't sorry for the death.

She never would be.

But for what that death had caused them, she would be forever sorry. She had never wanted to cause him pain, and that day in the officer's mess, with his big speech and his grand talk of holding her accountable, she knew she'd struck him a lower blow than any she could have conjured. She had acted outside his trust, betrayed him and she had witnessed the aftermath; there were no words for what she had felt at the time, because there had been too much anger still present.

But now she understood it.

Standing in that weighted, heavy moment, she knew she should voice her words, should voice the things she never said. Because as she gazed at him, standing firm on his ship but looking to her so weary, she felt the chill of certainty, as if it might be the final time they ever stood in the other's presence. The thought had nearly brought the words to her lips, but there was still something strangling them back down.

It wasn't stubbornness.

It was _fear_.

A large part of her had spoken out, and it told her that saying goodbye would only cement the certainty of them never meeting again. It told her that by saying the words she wanted so badly to say, she would leave nothing between them. She would be tearing down the wall dividing them entirely, and she didn't know if she could continue walking away from _that man_ without something, _anything_ dragging them back together.

She didn't take that step. Instead, she said nothing, choosing to fill her mind with the sight of him so tall and unwavering, and neglecting the thought that he could be dead in less than an hour. She walked away from him, from _them_ , and told herself as she suffocated on her words that they were both better off not hearing what she wanted to say.

 _You are a good man._

 _I'm glad it was your ship._

 _I am sorry._

* * *

Author's End Notes: I apologize for being away for this long, and for missing any reviews. Life took a step to the left for a moment and I needed to get some things in order. As always, I appreciate your reviews and follows and favourites, and I am forever up for prompts.


	11. Constant Bearing, Decreasing Range

Author's Note: Spoilers for season two episode 13. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

The envelope felt heavy in her hands.

And dear _Christ_ , she was flirting.

At least, she _thought_ she was. Was that what flirting was now? The pull of a smile every time he spoke, or the inadvertent shrug that left her feeling like a schoolgirl again? What about the breath she begged to take after he looked at her like _that_ , in the way he had which screamed at her _want_ and _need_ while his lips spoke such polite things?

Because they were doing it again, the push and pull so familiar to them. It was a dialogue under their words, unspoken desires and tears they had shared but never once voiced, a dialogue he had become so deft at, and so had she.

Os so she'd thought.

But there, in the moment, she felt her normal banter give way to something far more open, a conversation she'd wanted to have with him on the ship or in a lab or any one of a thousand other places that _weren't right there_. Not in a hotel, not in front of his room, and God, certainly not while he was _dressed like that_ and she could feel lace whisper against her skin. She'd needed distance between them for such a conversation - spoken or no - but what she got was an elegant hallway and a manila envelope.

Damn him for looking at her like that.

Their dialogue was shifting, and after the girlish gestures and the proud strut of her freedom - because by God she was bound to no one but choice again - she felt the ridiculous, unavoidable, _dangerous_ rip current that eddied around the man drag her closer. There was the proper excuse of the envelope, of course, the excuse that could save her, but when she could finally breathe in once, just full enough to fill her veins with the scent of deep ocean and sharp aftershave, that excuse lost all relevance.

It was not lost on her that he was holding his breath.

Being so close to him after so long at odds with one another, so close after they erected walls of rough stone, was a heady, empowering affair. He'd told her he would have followed through on the trial, and she'd expected nothing less. But now, with their fingertips dancing so close, she realized she never lost faith in him, never lost respect, not once in their time together. It seemed an impossible thought, because how many has she met in her lifetime that could have been formed from such a mold, a mold of a man who has her respect though all things?

She realizes he wasn't formed from a mold.

He was something the unbridled sea brought life to.

She needed to walk away.

So she did. She took a breath, gave him the worse one-liner she could think of, tried to act _cheeky_ and then fled. It would have been so much easier if he'd just let her go, if he'd kept quiet and allowed her to retreat from their dialogue of promise and _things that never were._ But then he said _those words_ , and it caused something to go tight in her chest.

 _Be careful._

But it wasn't the fact that he said it. It was the _manner_ in which he spoke that had her turning back. The words were barely given voice, breathed out to her in a plea, a _plea_. Christ, she had never thought to hear that man say such a thing to her.

And then…

 _Find me._

Words failed her, which was a blessing because her mind and her lips were incapable of finding a voice for them. She had thought herself free finally. Free to do her research and free to answer to only the president and free to be _her_ again; he spoke those words and suddenly she realized she wasn't freed from _everything_. Not yet. But she didn't balk at that thought. On the contrary, a rushing warmth sent shivers through her at the thought that one day, when she'd fought her last monster and played God one final time, she might be able to find rest in such a formidable, noble, _beautiful_ man.

The envelope had felt heavy.

Her heart had never felt so light.

* * *

Author's End Note: Well, this is sloppy, not my best work, and not sure I like it, but I felt like I needed to get something out there for Rachel. It isn't all I wanted to say for her, but this seemed an appropriate end point. Thank you again to all my reviewers, and to those who follow/favourite.


	12. Crossing the Bar

Author's Note: Spoilers for final episode. Warning for mention of blood. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

There is red on his hands.

It slicks and slides over his skin, paints him with sickening colour. There is _so much of it_ , and the sight of that red welling between his shaking fingers and soaking into her dress turns his stomach inside out. He tries to remember something, _anything_ about basic combat medic practices, but his mind can only think of the words he never said.

What a fucking time to recall _every moment_ he should have said something.

Every moment he _wanted_ to say something.

Even before he saw her as more than just _Rachel_ , she had been a force of nature to him, unrivaled in her uncanny ability to strip away any obstacle in her path with tenacious zeal. He hadn't known how to deal with her then, other than to treat her with respect and stern politeness, but he had quickly become educated on the formidable terror known as _Dr. Scott._

They had danced their dance, and then he'd missed a step; the respect and _something else_ they'd orbited for months had spun them away into opposite sides. He had closed himself off, she had turned fierce. _Ruthless_. Or perhaps she'd always been that way, and he'd given her the excuse, the push to act out on her deepest nature.

He's never going to forgive himself for that.

Because wasn't it he that told her to do what was necessary? Hadn't he backed her unyieldingly into a corner and struck a low blow at her from his high position? He knows there are no words to form an apology grand enough to make amends for what he has done to her, and looking at her now, he is terrified he will never have the chance to try.

God please, not her.

 _I can't do this again._

Her fingers are cold and her eyes are dark as she attempts to bull her way into the role of doctor again, but that just twists up a part of him he doesn't know he had; she is fighting, she is losing, and he can't stop it.

He is a goddamn hero among heroes.

She is the god that granted them all life.

Yet here she is, shivering and cold and pale beneath his hands, and he and his unsaid words are worthless. Her voice comes as a cracked whisper to him, instructing him, guiding, but they both know they are only borrowing time stolen the moment that trigger was pulled. He thinks, in some recess of his mind, that he should feel Anger, or at least Disgust, but all there is to fill him is Fear so great it numbs his body and thickens his tongue. Anger would come later, he is sure of it. Anger and Guilt and a fury unlike any on the _James_ had ever witnessed.

Darien was taken from him.

 _She_ has been _stolen_ from him.

He knows he shouldn't imagine her as already gone from his life. He knows he should have hope and cling to the idea that someone would come, and someone would help and someone would _save her_ ; he looks at her ashen face and the tears in her eyes and he knows there is so little time left for anything save a handful of words he needs to say.

He chokes on his ragged breath as they are finally freed.

 _I wasn't ready._

 _I didn't know how to say it._

 _I'm sorry._

She smiles at him then, a wan thing that is nearly missed. Her words are failing her, but he understands; she knows he wasn't ready, and she knows he is sorry. Sorry for pushing her, sorry for squandering their trust, sorry for _not being sorry soon enough_. The red under his hands is slowing, and his heart nearly stops at the thought that this untamed woman, with her biting wit and ruthless nature, will be irrevocably gone from his life. And he had only just managed to offer reparation for the damage he'd done to them.

He thinks he can taste a salty wet on his lips.

Her chest falters under his fingers, and he knows their time is gone.

Without any thought, one of his red-stained hands lifts to her pale face, trailing colour across her cheek as his fingers trace her curves. She is trying to be brave, but he sees the last light of terror in her eyes, the fight and fear to cling to a life that had been snatched from her; he expects nothing less than that fight, for her to face horrors and whip out her arms and _say do your worst._

But death is final.

And she is afraid.

So he leans in and for only the second time, places his lips against her skin. And suddenly his voice is found, and he whispers all the things he could never say, all the things he had swallowed down from Fear. He is a coward, confessing to her while her blood thickens on his hands, but he is terrified she will never know.

He is still murmuring litanies against her chill skin when he realizes she no longer breathes.

He can't look at her, can't see those challenging eyes grown dim.

Now, Anger sets into his bones.

Now, he will spill red of his own.

* * *

Author's End Note: Well...that happened. I do so love to torture Tom. I am sure Rachel will be fine and this is a simple way for the writers to keep her in the general area of Tom. So have no fear. She'll be back.


	13. To Lose Way, To Make Way

Author's Note: Spoilers for finale. See End Notes for more information.

* * *

He'd scrubbed his hands pink and raw.

There is still ruddy brown under his fingernails.

His entire appearance is fathoms away from how he was dressed just a few hours ago. His coat has been discarded and his black strip of tie has been jerkedly pulled down to sit skewed against his chest.

But it is the red that paints him in slowly drying shades that commands the most attention.

Some part of him thinks he should find fresh clothing, if just to change his garish appearance, but he can't bring himself to move from this one highly uncomfortable, mass-produced plastic chair. It is the first time he's sat down since he found her - oh Christ he can't think of that, not now - and even though the seat is causing his back to twinge, he bears out its uncomfortable nature in silence.

His mind has a moment now to think, now that the chaos and the slurry of words and prayers and pleas have abated. It's in this moment that his mind decides to remind him of the _very instant_ they met, her and him. She had been brusk and authoritative, already shaping the ship to her needs while giving him half-truths and a smile; he later learnt that smile to be one she used subconsciously, when she lied or played a part, a turn of her lips he doesn't think she ever realized occurred.

In that cluttered helo bay, he met Dr. Rachel Scott.

He met her again with a defiant look on her face as she told them her true mission.

And again when her research failed her.

During the trials.

The _cure_.

The _murder_.

He had never witnessed such a bold cut of a human before, a person so complex and puzzling that he had to relearn them at every turn. She had fought him and fought _with_ him, sharp words barbed with bare truth and twisting lies as her weapons, but even now, he doesn't think there was a single instance in which he'd lost _respect_ for her. He'd met _Dr. Rachel Scott_ a thousand times over on their journey, and never once did his mind suggest such a thing. It had warned him, to be sure, when his heart began to waver, that she could not be trusted; he'd listened once to that part of him, and his subsequent actions had clouded the waters between him and the doctor.

But in that hallway, he'd met _Rachel_.

Just as she'd said, it wasn't _up to him anymore._ They aren't on his ship, they aren't at odds any longer. He isn't just the _captain_ , she isn't just the _doctor_ anymore. In that hallway, they were two people working on being true and _whole_ again, and it had struck him in the moment that he wasn't ready - not yet - to commit himself completely to another. Especially not one that had seemed so _free_ for the first time since he'd known her.

And God, she had seemed so _weightless_.

He'd wanted to tell her the quiet things he'd thought alone at night, the things that kept him up because he knew they bordered infidelity and toed the line of propriety. Because none of those things had mattered in that instant; neither were married, neither were beholden to another, neither had a reason beyond _not yet._ So he'd given her the only thing he could at the time: a promise.

 _Find me._

He had decided then that he wouldn't stop living his life because she would be leaving, but he would always keep a part of it open for her, in whatever fashion she returned. And he saw in her a spark of hope that had stolen away the breath in his lungs, a tilt of her head and a shine in her eyes that had told him she would take him up on that offer, if ever they met again.

 _If ever they met again_.

Christ, he should have told her, right then and there.

His fingernails catch his attention again.

He knows he should try to clean them again, but he can't seem to move from his uncomfortable, plastic chair. His once crisp, white shirt crackles quietly against his chest as he breathes, the muddy red drying fully and coating him in a decaying, vivid reminder of recent events. Others had attempted encouragement, tried to wedge him free from his position and at least wash up, but all he could manage was the soapy hell he'd put his hands through.

Because he can't leave his horrible chair.

He wants to make it easier for her to _find him_ when she wakes up.

* * *

Author's End Note: You can blame this on **IfUKnewUCouldNotFail** , and **shepweir always** , as they seemed very upset that I may or may not have murdered Rachel in the previous chapter. And thank you so much to **The Mistress Snape** , **AtoZee** , **Scousedancer** , **ScarlettKate1013** , and **lizb1813** for reviewing the last chapter and proving how much love there is for Rachel. A special mention to **MorningGlory2** , for giving me proof that I did my job adequately as a writer. (I will try to get back on track with reviews, so lets hope this starts a trend.)

Edit: Since I evidently didn't make this clear: she lives. I just took a different approach than "yay everything is going to be ok", because it isn't, and probably won't be for a while for them both. I hope this is in some small way a peace offering to those who were so upset over her death in the previous chapter.


	14. Jurymast

**Author's Note** : See End Notes for more.

* * *

She dreams of sweet things, of half-hidden smiles and faint touches.

She dreams of dark things, of crimson and gunpowder smell.

These are the things that wake her in the deep night, struggling for breath and slick with feverish sweat. No comforting light can be found in her room, no bedside lamp, not a single bright bulb. She prefers the shadow now, it wraps her in a chill blanket of imagined protection, contrary to popular belief. She doesn't want to see the scattered papers littering her haphazard desk; she doesn't want to see the reminders of that moment which laid her low.

Bandages and gauze, antibiotic bottles and topical ointments. They sit mockingly and alone on a table near her bed, within reach but far enough away they don't smother her with their presence. She likes the dark because she can imagine her nightmares are fiction of the mind, things not real in her past and so readily apparent in her now.

Her therapist says she has post-traumatic stress, and her doctor tells her she needs rest in abundance. Don't they know she has time for neither? She cannot afford to simply sit around doing so _little_ , when there is a mountain of research and data and theories to assault at the nearest possible moment. She is a doctor, too, _the_ doctor if she is honest, a person do devoted to her craft that she nearly died a dozen times over for it.

And how did she actually die?

Because she _did_ die. For a brief few moments, she was nothing but cooling flesh. An empty vessel that once smiled and laughed and for a heartbeat, loved. And that was what killed her, in the end. She couldn't say what she wanted, couldn't act on what was there, and in that small exchange of words, she had seen the potential for more than just the little things. She had been happy when she left him, and that distracted her, cost her a misstep in her game.

And so she felt Death coming, and knew love could have saved her, just as it had cursed her.

So she sits shaking now, holding herself because there is no one else to do it. He wants to comfort her, he wants to wrap her and keep her safe, but that isn't her. She doesn't need the comfort, or so she tells herself. She doesn't need his distracting touch and the longing in his eyes. She needs to focus on her new cure, and her mission, not his face and his hands.

So she dreams of dark things, of crimson and gunpowder smell.

And she dreams of sweet things, of half-hidden smiles and faint touches.

She is cold and lonely and strong, but she doesn't know if she is strong enough to keep him from taking away the dark things.

* * *

 **Author's End Notes** : Well, I am back, it seems. At least enough to fix the disaster of the new season. And as always, new and old suggestions are welcome. I will reiterate though that I do not write marriage or children into my stories.


	15. Cofferdam

Author's Note: See end notes for more information.

* * *

The ship under him is an _Arleigh Burke_ -class guided missile destroyer.

She has a displacement of ninety-three hundred tons and has a length of five hundred and nine feet. Plus six inches.

He knows those six inches. He knows the twists and turns of her passageways and the smallest of compartments. He knows her crew and her sound and her _power_.

But for the life of him, he cannot help but feel out of place.

He thinks perhaps it isn't _himself_ that feels so disjointed and disoriented, but rather the ship herself. He has a new crew, new faces and fresh officers, but that isn't what concerns him. It is the emptiness those passageways hold, the vacant space left behind when his ship was converted back to her original glory. There is a missing piece now, a void where there should have been whirring machinery and glass vials, plastic sheeting and hospital cots.

A void where there should have been knowing eyes and hidden smiles.

Thinking back, he can recall the tenacious doctor moving in as though she owned the space she'd taken. That woman fought for her ground and held it, no matter the form: ship compartment, opinions, research, and _guilt_. The last one cut him deep, opened a part of him wide that he hadn't felt in all his years of marriage. She bore her guilt on her sleeve, in place of her heart, even if she surrounded herself with what she thought were thick walls and iron will. And even then, he had backed her into a corner, and then persecuted her for acting as he'd designed; she had stood defiant, but he'd seen the pain there, the crumbling under that iron will. He had betrayed a tenuous trust they'd built, and yet there had been hope in her eyes when they'd stood in that hall, speaking with double meaning and desire.

He can remember vividly the glint in her eyes, the confidence in her posture. She had performed a miracle, and she was making her way to perform another. They had been out of their element with one another for all their time together, yet she had looked at him in that moment as though she had always known him, and always would.

She is forging ahead now, ripping into a new disease with the same bull-dog tendencies as before, though now she has government backing and lab assistants and an uncluttered world not built of seafaring and war. She will cut down this new threat, of that he is confident, returning victorious and worshiped, carrying more weight and hopefully less guilt.

There is little the world could do to repay her, and her sacrifices - not of the flesh but of the soul - will be lost to time; her deeds will become something of legend and myth. History will remember her as a hero, but he will remember her smile and her touch and her _strength_.

He knows the ship has a displacement of ninety-three hundred tons and has a length of five hundred and nine feet. Plus six inches.

He knows it feels empty without her.

* * *

Author's End Note: Not really much to work off of for this new season, so I looked back a bit and speculated on where they would be now. And thank you to those who have reviewed and favourited.


	16. Close Aboard

Author's Note: Warning: character introspection dealing with PTSD. See End Notes for more.

* * *

Death is loud and red and oppressively _close_ here.

It is strange that it feels so familiar.

The disease she is hunting now presents itself in a dozen ways, but it hasn't halted her from pulling at its threads, the frayed ends that only she seems to see. Those portions of the virus that thinks it is smarter, that _thing_ that makes it so deadly; she has plucked at it tirelessly until she finally found footing in its domain. Now, she wades deep into its realm, careful this time not to go under with the fervor of heroic, godly acts.

But Christ, it is _hard_.

This Death, it does not come quiet, and she can feel it plucking back at her own frayed ends, the ends she cannot seem to fix.

The waking dreams of fear, and the nightly dreams of failure.

They are constant reminders that she didn't wake up a whole person, at least not in her opinion. She is fractured and chipped, cracked in tenuous shards that she worries one day will come apart completely. Her therapist talks about more therapy, and her colleagues tell her to simply take _time for herself._ But she doesn't have that time, can't they see? She doesn't have the time to talk about her feelings, or open up about the fragile thing in her chest she once called a heart. There is only the disease and the stricken and the Death surrounding them all.

She doesn't have time to fall to pieces.

That doesn't stop her from jolting away at a loud noise, or shrinking back when someone pressures her personal space. There are memories she cannot remember, memories she feels in her bones, and they are the memories that plague her in the small hours of the night. Her body moves without her consent at times, cowering at the drop of a book or the shattering of a glass, sounds she would once pay no mind to, but now crack loudly in her mind, spurring on her muscles to act.

It is in those moments she remembers _him_.

His stern face and kind words, the feel of his calloused hands and the heat in his fingertips. She remembers those memories, remembers what it was like to feel _safe_ from the world, if only for a moment. She holds tightly to those moments, clutching them close to that fragile thing in her chest, feeling it fill a few small cracks, like smooth molten glass pouring over imperfect planes. She isn't _healed_ by the memories, but they are warm when she is cold, comforting when she is afraid.

And she is _so afraid_.

She has an excellent front built around her, but it only holds so long as her mind is focused on real things, grounded things: her work, the virus, those she saves and those she loses, _his smile_. But otherwise, she is shaking and tired, too tired to build her wall and too afraid to think of what happens next. The small fears she once had - failure, misunderstanding, _saving the world_ \- are all but gone now, replaced with the fear of unknown things, and that fact is more grim than anythings she classifies as a "passing worry" from her prior life. She is surround by helpful acquaintances and collaborators, and not one seems to grasp the terrors of her fractured, cobbled-together life.

But then she holds him close to that fragile thing in her chest.

And for a brief moment, she isn't a cracked, broken thing.

* * *

Author's End Note: I cannot pretend to know what it is like to live with Post Traumatic Stress, but I do understand what it is like to live with bipolar and anxiety, and I have been told they are similar in some (but certainly not all) regards. A colleague handles their own PTSD with one-on-one and group therapy, and they say it helps more than any medication, so I thought I would focus more on that method than just drugs. That, and doctors make the worse patients.


End file.
